


state of the union

by gurlsrool



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, White House AU, yeah idk what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7560292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurlsrool/pseuds/gurlsrool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's not cut out to be the president's son and Bitty's not cut out to protect the president's son but they're both cut out for 4 A.M baking lessons and a White House romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	state of the union

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, not rly an accurate au, just a fun time!!!! I just wanted to write something kinda different so ! here we go!! It's not rly like an Exact au for cp where things line up perfectly bc it's kinda more Jack realizing he's not cut out for the world of politics and Bitty realizing he's not cut out for the world of secret service and that's okay!!! It's rly just love and friendship and self love all in the White House for some reason! Tw for canon typical drug use, language, and mentions of anxiety and Jack's overdose. Please excuse any typos and inaccuracies to American politics that might be left. Thanks!!!! Just... don't give me shit for this ok I'm trying my best here!

In the end, it’s his dad’s idea. He almost rejects it on that principle alone but he doesn’t bother fighting, initially. He’s tired. He’s on new meds and they’re making him tired and the press is making him tired and not for the first time, he misses his childhood bed. 

“It’ll help,” His dad had said, “Being around people your own age.” 

“I have Shitty,” he had said with a shrug. The words I have Kenny were in his mouth too but they didn’t mean much anymore so he didn’t bother saying them. 

“I know, Jack,” his dad had smiled softly, ruffled his hair like he was as young as he had been before they started living in the White House, before the election and the overdose. “It’ll still be good for you.” 

Jack laughs now, remembering the words, as he storms into the oval office, Shitty hot on his heels. “This is ridiculous,” he says, with no other introduction. Alicia and Bob look up from where they’re sitting on one of the couches, heads pushed together. Bob glances between Jack and Shitty, eyes tired but amused.

Shitty puts his hands up, “I tried to stop him,” he says through heavy breaths, “He’s gone fuckin awol.” 

Bob laughs. “What’s going on? We have about,” he glances at his watch and Jack winces, just a little, “two minutes til our conference call with the U.N.”

“One,” Alicia mutters.

“My security detail,” Jack folds his arms, “It’s a joke right?” 

“Oh yeah, where are they right now?”

“He told them he was gonna take a piss and made a break for it. I give em like thirty seconds before they catch up to us.” Shitty replies, still breathing hard. Jack smacks him on the arm, “Ow!” 

“Papa.”

“Jack.”

“They’re the size of mice.” 

“Two of them are on the smaller side, sure,” Bob admits.

“Two of them,” Jack narrows his gaze, “That’s half of them. Half.” 

“Jack,” Alicia closes her folder in her I mean business way that she uses on Jack, her cabinet, and pretty much every world leader she encounters. “We wouldn’t entrust these people with your safety if we didn’t have complete and utter faith in them.” 

“The little blonde one gave me a mini pie,” he says sternly and Shitty lets out a snort, “A mini pie, maman.”

“Was it good?” Bob smirks. 

“That’s… irrelevant.” 

“It was fucking godly-”

The doors to the oval office fling open and the security detail in question spill into the room, panting hard. “Dude!” The tall blonde one, who told Jack to call him Holster (because he proclaimed it wasn’t fair that only Jack got a nickname) he doesn’t totally hate shouts out, “What the hell!” before muttering into his wrist, “Falcon has been located in the oval office, I repeat-”

The tiny blonde one, Bittle, scrambles frantically towards Jack’s parents. “I am so sorry, we are so sorry, Madame President, really.” 

“Don’t be,” Alicia waves a hand, “I’m sorry for my son’s reckless behavior. It won’t happen from now on,” she raises her eyebrows at Jack, “Will it?” 

Jack doesn’t answer. He looks at Bittle, who’s flushed pink and fiddling with the collar of his button down. He smiles up at Jack nervously and Jack feels it in his stomach, drops his gaze. 

“It won’t Mrs. Z!” Shitty claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder, pulling him close with the movement, “Dude you gotta calm the hell down.”

“I’m calm,” Jack hisses, storming past the guards, who form a formation around him and Shitty. Bittle always seems to end up on his side and it’s really starting to piss him off. 

“You’re a jackass is what you are,” Shitty mutters, “And that pun was fucking intended.”

“Yeah? Well you’re… Shitty.”

Lardo snorts and Shitty flashes her a grin, “That was real good Jackie O. Real fuckin good.” 

 

It gets worse. Bittle, or Bitty as all the others have started to call him, is afraid of getting attacked. One day a US Weekly reporter gets too close and he practically shrivels up into a ball.

“I don’t understand,” Jack mutters, sitting on the cushioned bench by his windowsill. They’re by the window because Shitty figures he shouldn’t get the smell of weed in the White House. It’s not working very well but Jack supposes it’s the thought that counts. “It’s literally his job to protect us, what happens if someone actually attacks?”

“The rest of them will have your back,” Shitty shrugs, leaning his hand out the window lazily. 

“But why would they even hire him to begin with?” Jack grumbles, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Shitty lets out a laugh, head knocking against the wall of Jack’s bedroom. He coughs on the laugh and then looks down a moment later, to see Jack staring at him with a blank expression. “Oh shit, you’re serious. Dude.” 

“What?” 

“You really don’t know?” 

“Know what?”

“Your dad hired him,” Shitty says, like that explains everything, and takes a hit. Jack stares him in his glazed over eyes. Shitty begins to laugh again. He does that a lot more when he’s high. “He thought you’d…” he gestures with his joint, “get along with him.”

Jack frowns, “I don’t need my parents finding me friends. I have you.”

“Well if my mom wasn’t your mom’s vice then we never would have met so technically-”

“Fuck off.” 

“C’mere Jack,” Shitty whispers and Jack goes, only semi-reluctantly, settling into Shitty’s arms. “You should talk to him bro.” 

“My dad?”

“Nope,” Shitty pops the P. 

“Oh.” 

He pulls Jack closer to his chest, whispers, “He’s nice. Give him a chance.”

 

He does and immediately realizes he’s made a mistake. He learns that Bittle likes pop music and makes pies appear. He learns that Bittle’s afraid of getting hurt but he’s not afraid of using his southern drawl to fight the press. He learns that when Bittle smiles Jack can sort of feel something tighten in his chest. 

 

Jack walks to the kitchen half asleep and half dressed at four a.m. and he’s there. He always just seems to be there and logically, Jack knows that that’s kind of his job but also it’s starting to feel like it means something. There’s flour on his cheekbone that Jack kind of wants to wipe away with his thumb and the overhead light’s making his hair glow in a way that makes Jack kind of want to flick the switch. 

It takes Bittle a minute to see him. He’s in the zone, mixing ingredients in a large blue bowl. He’s so far off in his head that he doesn’t notice Jack until he’s close enough to catch the bowl when he gasps and drops it.

“I am so sorry! Oh my lord.”

Jack presses the bowl back into Bitty’s hands. It sets off a little spark in his fingers that he tries to ignore.

“It’s okay,” Jack shrugs, “I shouldn’t have… uh…” he loses his trail of thought as he watches Bitty’s gaze trail down to his chest and jump back up again. He coughs, “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”

“Oh,” Bittle absentmindedly places the bowl on the countertop beside him, “It’s alright! I mean… it’s your kitchen. Do you… want something?” 

“That’s not your job.” 

“Aww,” Bittle smiles shyly, “Jack Zimmermann, man of the people,” he turns back to his bowl, spins his whisk in a few sharp circles. “I wish they’d put that on the front pages.” 

“Ha.” 

“Really,” Bittle grabs a spatula and begins to pour out the blue-purple mixture into a pie crust. It’s kind of soothing to watch him scoop it down in long waves. “They’re vultures you know that?” He shakes his head, makes an honest to god tsk noise, “I think if they spent an hour with you, they’d change how they wrote about you.”

“What?”

Bittle blushes, “I just mean… you’re a nice guy yeah? You don’t deserve to have your existence boiled down to one day of your life.” 

Jack’s not sure he fully remembers how to breathe. He definitely doesn’t remember how to form much more than a sentence so he says, “I’ve been… horrible to you. When you first started working… I was horrible to you.”

“Hmm?” He lifts his head from where he’s carefully forming the top of the pie with slow fingers. “Oh honey no, you’re just a little rough on the edges,” he smiles, “We all got something.” 

Jack’s heart sort of hurts. He looks at Bittle, out of his usual suit and tie, in a t-shirt and flannel pajama shorts, and his heart hurts. Shit, he thinks. He’s so screwed. 

“Hey, why are you up this early anyways?” he glances at the clock. It flashes from 4:03 to 4:04. “You doin’ okay?”

“I wake up at four, usually.”

“What?”

“Four. I wake up at four. I woke up a little earlier today, I thought I’d get something to eat.” 

“You wake up at four...in the morning?”

Jack nods, “It’s uh… the only time I can be alone. Don’t worry, I don’t leave the grounds or anything. It’s just nice to have some time to myself. You know it’s all kind of… a lot sometimes.” 

“I get that,” he nods, slides his pie in the oven, “Um, I can leave you alone if you want?”

“No!” Jack answers too quickly, “No, no, it’s okay. More than okay. How long does it uh... take to bake that?” 

“About fifty minutes.”

“Okay,” Jack nods, opens the fridge, and pulls out two bottles of apple juice. “If you’re willing to share I can you know… wait with you.” 

“Hmm,” he taps his chin and it’s so endearing it’s unreal. “Can I spare one slice of blueberry pie for the son of the leader of the free world?” Jack snorts. “I suppose I could… if you work for it,” He tosses a wash rag and Jack catches it easily. 

“Okay.”

“I’m kidding. My mama would actually skin me alive if she found out I made anyone do my dishes, let alone you.” 

Jack shrugs, “No, I want to. I mean, technically they’re my dishes.” 

Bittle laughs, a light, all encompassing laugh. “Alright, fine. Together then?” 

Jack nods and moves beside him. He lets the sound of soap and warm water fill the room for a few, calm minutes before he asks, “So what are you doing here?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you up? Making a pie?”

“Oh,” He lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously nervous, “You know… gotta have it fresh by breakfast.” 

“You have pie for breakfast?” Jack raises an eyebrow. 

“Okay, you want the truth?” 

“Yeah.”

“The truth truth?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not really… cut out to be a security guard.” 

“Really?” Jack smirks, “I had no idea.”

“Oh hush!” Bittle grins, “I just applied with my friend, I really thought there was no way in hell I’d get it but the guy who interviewed me, Agent Johnson, said something about me being important for… oh I don’t remember, I think maybe it was some code words I didn’t understand. Anyways, I just applied to get into the White House for the interview I um… I really wanted to see the kitchen. Oh wow, that sounds stupid, saying it out loud.” 

“No it doesn’t.” 

“Oh stop,” He blushes, “Anyways, when I got it my friends sort of pushed me into talking to the kitchen staff and they said I could use the kitchen after hours,” He sighs dreamily, “Honestly, you’re lucky you came tonight and not any earlier. This is only the second time I’ve gotten through baking here without crying. I mean, look at this place, lord!” 

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to bake,” Jack admits. 

“Yeah? Maybe I could teach you. Four a.m. baking lessons?”

“Yeah,” Jack smiles, “And I could teach you how to handle physical contact.”

Bittle chokes on air. 

“Oh I mean uh… You’re bad at your job, that’s all. And I want you to stick around. For the kitchen. And-” 

“Oh I’m bad at my job huh?” 

“Well. In theory? I just mean, if something were to happen, you wouldn’t be very… capable. Shit. This isn’t coming out right.”

“Oh my god Jack, I’m kidding, I know I’m horrible,” He laughs, “Really, I am just keeping this job for the kitchen. The company’s alright too.” 

Jack doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything. They wash the dishes. They wipe down the counters. They knock into each other’s spaces more than they should. Bittle tells him to call him Bitty and Bitty tells him about the weather in Madison and the apple tree he just planted in the backyard of the house he shares with the rest of the security detail and Jack, really, really wants to kiss him.

The oven beeps. The sun rises. The pie cools. Jack takes his slice. Jack takes a bite. Jack really, really, really wants to kiss him. 

 

“I’m an idiot,” Jack falls into Shitty’s bed. “Where’s your detail?”

“Rans is in some meeting, Lards is getting me weed.”

Jack rolls over, eyes narrowed, “Your security guard is buying you weed?” 

“No Jack,” Shitty rolls over to meet his gaze, rolling his eyes as he goes, “I’m paying her back for it. Honestly you’re fucking welcome, vp’s son seen buying weed isn’t a good headline for your mom.”

“No one cares if you buy weed Shitty.”

“You’re right. Because I’m fucking white, it’s fucking unfair- hey,” He cuts off his own rant which is rare, “What’s this about you being an idiot?” 

“I just… am?” 

“No you’re not. What’s this about dude?”

“Nothing, it’s…” He rolls away from Shitty and faces the door instead, where an outline of Bitty stands in the now open doorway. “Bittle.” 

“Hmm? What about him?” 

Bitty gives a tiny wave. Jack instinctively runs his fingers through his hair. “Dinner time,” Bitty smirks, “C’mon, get up.” 

“Any pie?” Jack asks, his voice sounding small and childish to his own ears.

“You’ll just have to come down and find out now won’t you Mr. Zimmermann?” Bitty smiles that fucking smile and turns on his heels, “Three minutes to wash up boys!” He calls over his shoulder.

Jack stands up and smooths down the front of his shirt. When he turns around, he’s faced with Shitty, still lying in bed, smiling up at him. “Oh dude,” He laughs, “Dude. Bro. Jack.”

“What?”

“You’re so right. You’re an idiot Jack Zimmermann,” He pulls himself to his feet and pats his hands on Jack’s shoulders, “A beautiful love struck idiot.” 

 

Jack doesn’t mean to tell him everything. He doesn’t mean to talk about the overdose and the pressure to be the perfect son of the perfect politician. He doesn’t mean to talk about the way his parents were made for this world of cocktail parties and charity galas and Jack was made for hiding in bathroom stalls and trying to get his breathing under control.

He doesn’t mean to spend almost every morning learning how to bake at 4 a.m. He doesn’t mean to kiss him.  
They’re in the family theater because somehow their four a.m. classes have started to go beyond baking, into lessons on pop songs and movies and some website that’s about birds or something, Jack’s not sure. When Bitty starts to talk animatedly, with words and hands flying and a grin on his face, he finds it hard to pay much attention.

“Is this supposed to be realistic?” Jack asks, moving his face closer to Bitty’s than he really needs to, voice low. 

“Jack,” Bitty rolls his eyes in that cute exasperated way he does way too often, “It’s disney channel. Of course not.” 

“I just feel like it could make more sense,” Jack frowns, “If he lives in D.C, wouldn’t he know where the White House is? I mean, most people know where the White House is but especially if you live in D.C. He probably went on a school trip to it at some point, schools from the area are here all the time.” 

“Does that get tiring?” Bitty asks, putting his elbow on the arm rest of the chair and his chin in his palm. 

“Hmm?”

“Having people look at you… like your house is a museum.”

Jack shrugs, “I mean, it is kind of a museum,” He looks around, at the red carpets and the high ceilings and the screen flickering My Date With the President’s Daughter. “People deserve to be able to… you know… take it in. Learn.”

“You really are something Jack.”

For some reason, that’s what gets him, hearing his name coming from Bitty’s smiling mouth. For some reason, that’s what gets him to lean in and kiss him and for some reason, Bitty kisses him back and it feels like the way he can hear the fireworks in his chest on the fourth of July when they watch them from the White House lawn. 

He pulls back after a long moment. Bitty’s flushed pink and laughing softly, his forehead now pressed against Jack’s and his eyes shy. 

“Hey,” Jack whispers.

“Hi,” Bitty whispers back.

He darts his gaze away, just enough to give him a second to catch his breath, and looks at the screen, where the security guards in the movie are tripping over each other’s feet in pursuit of the president’s daughter. “At least they got the secret service right,” He mutters with a grin and Bitty barks out a laugh.

“Speaking of, if this…” He gestures between the two of them, “is anything, I should probably be reassigned.” 

Jack nods, “I want it to be something. I mean, if you do.”

“I do,” Bitty lets out a quiet laugh, “Um, I could just work with Shitty from now on?”

“Maybe, but you know I uh know a guy who could get you a job in the kitchen, if you’d take it.”

“Oh Jack, I couldn’t ask you to-”

“Bits,” His eyes grow wide at the nickname, “Please. I think we’d all be better off with you working in the kitchen. Trust me.” 

“Okay,” Bitty nods seriously, pulling his head back only to lean it against Jack’s shoulder, “I trust you,” he whispers. 

“Good,” Jack takes his hand and smiles wide, struck by the realization that he’s in America’s most famous museum making his own history, one made only for his eyes and Bitty’s. He can have this, Jack realizes, running his thumb along the back of Bitty’s hand. He knows, logically, that he could never make a name in politics for himself with a secret like this, but right now he doesn’t care because right now, he can have this. 

“Good,” he echoes, finding himself meaning it, “Good.” 

 

Later, Shitty leans over the Truman balcony beside Jack, an oversized Zimmermann-Knight shirt tucked into a pair of mom jeans and a peanut butter cookie in hand. “Do you think they’ll be reelected?” he asks, eyes towards the Washington Monument and eyebrows narrowed. 

“I don’t know, probably.”

“I mean for like the world’s sake I hope they are but like I could use a break from the press and fucking charity galas bro.” 

Jack shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind living here a little longer. With you.” 

“Right…” Shitty grins, waggles his eyebrows, “Me.”

“Yeah.”

“Me. Only me?” 

“Yup.”

“Okay dude I really didn’t want to press but you’re like bright red and you may or may not have a hickey on your neck.”

“What?” Jack brings a hand up to the back of his neck, rubs nervously to the front. 

“Oh my fucking Obama,” Shitty gasps, “Dude I was joking, who the hell have you boned? Bitty? It was Bitty wasn’t it? Please tell me it was Bitty.” 

Jack drops his hand, grips the balcony. The pink color of the sky matches the feeling in his cheeks and looking out, Jack feels like all of D.C is open to him.

“We kissed,” he smiles, still watching the sky, “I think I like him.”

“Uh, I know you like him,” Shitty breaks his cookie in half and presses the bigger half into Jack’s hand. It’s warm and it melts on his tongue and it’s so sweet it has Bitty written all over it. “That’s the fatal flaw of future Senator Zimmermann Junior. You write how you feel all over that beautiful face.” 

“Yeah,” Jack nods, “I’m not sure if I’m cut out for politics.” 

“Fuck that dude,” Shitty grins, “You’re cut out for fucking anything.”

“Thanks Shits but really I just meant that’s not the way I wanna go. I was thinking maybe historian or museum curator or something, I don’t know.” 

“Dude that sounds fucking awesome.”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes and breathes and breathes. It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud and hearing the words leave his throat makes him believe them, makes him want it more. He looks outward at Washington D.C and for once, doesn’t feel like the entire world is crashing down on him when it looks back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u for reading hmu at gaysun on tumblr w/ prompts!! Ily!!!


End file.
